Two Men and a Cat
by Ta'er Sagheer
Summary: "Are you sure this isn't just some ploy in order to annoy me and distract you from your pain?" // House looked genuinely shocked. "That doesn't sound like me."


**A/N**: _So, I wrote this before I even got anywhere near th_e Here Kitty_ episode. I actually considered having Debbie make a guest-appearance once I actually saw that ep, but couldn't find a way to make it work, and I settled for my original plan. This sat around on my computer for a couple of months until I decided to post it. Gracias to _**misdreya** _ for all the help. ***Bonus points if anyone knows where the 'Paul' line comes from. :D**_

* * *

As he shut the door, Wilson could see the television screen flickering beyond the halo of graying hair that was the back of House's head. The screen winked out before he had a chance to process the sounds and images, and House quickly twisted around, glaring at him.

"You're late," House informed him.

Wilson, not quite sure how to respond, said, "Okay?"

He arched an eyebrow and set his briefcase down near the door, peeling the neatly folded jacket from his arm. House continued to stare at him as he hung it up.

"Any messages for me?" he asked.

"That depends."

He tossed his keys onto a nearby table and snorted, beginning to leaf through a pile of mail.

"On what?" he asked, frowning all the unopened letters addressed to House.

"Where were you?"

The thumbing through the mail gradually became slower as he realized, "You're… not going to tell me, until I tell you where I was."

House's response was to shrug gently and wrap his hands around his bad leg, lowering it from the coffee table with a slight groan.

"Huh," Wilson said dully. He slung the mail onto the couch cushion next to House. "Seriously though. Any messages?"

House thoroughly inspected the mail (glanced at it, rather, appearing surprised at its bulk) and screwed his face up as though he couldn't quite remember. He shrugged again. "Gee. Guess I forgot. My bad."

Wilson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, decided to pretend that House didn't exist, and reminded himself that had it been important, he would have received a page or a call on his cell.

He wondered if he should become one of those people totally dependent on a cell phone. He weighed the pros and cons with a tilt of his head in either direction, his eyebrows rising and falling while he did the mental math. It would certainly be more convenient, though probably more annoying. It would also give him a sense of privacy.

He cast a sideways glance at the back of House's head again and changed his mind. With House afoot, there was no such thing as privacy.

"So," House said in perfect timing of Wilson's vanishing thoughts, "where were you?"

Wilson snorted. "Why do you even care?"

"I'm worried about you, Jimmy," House said in mock-concern, his pale blue eyes twinkling. An unsuspecting victim might think him sincere, but Wilson knew better. "We never talk anymore."

"Please." Wilson rolled his eyes. "Can't I have one evening," he said, bracing himself against the wall with his hand as he tugged a shoe off, "where I can come home, have some dinner, watch a little TV and then go to bed without being mocked, threatened, or interrogated?"

House grit his teeth together in a show of uncertainty, his head bobbing left and right. "Eeehhhh. That depends."

Hands firmly planted on his hips, Wilson gaped in disbelief.

"Fine," he said. The wheels in his head began to turn. "I thought about what you said—about me being boring, and decided you were right."

House leaned forward, interest piqued.

"I got bored on my lunch break and decided to take up skydiving lessons." House's brow creased. Obviously, that was not what he had expected to hear. "The lesson ran a little long, and so I figured, 'Hey, while I'm up here'…" he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and added, "Parachute's out front, in case you were wondering."

House, who had remained suspiciously silent the whole time, finally blinked in surprise, an action accompanied by an over embellished shiver. "That was awful," he said.

"We can't all be good at lying, House."

"Yeah, but you didn't even_ try_."

Sighing and throwing his hands up into the air, Wilson crossed the front room, headed for the kitchen. He noticed something that struck him as odd, and his pace slowed.

"House?" he called over his shoulder.

"What?"

"What is that?" He pointed at something on the floor, walking hurriedly toward it. His voice increased in volume the closer he got. "Is that my—what the—oh my g—_House!_ Is there a cat in this apartment?"

"I don't think so," he called, trying to sound innocent. "Hey, grab me some coffee while you're in there."

"What the hell is this?" Wilson asked, holding up a small yellow and black bag that had 'cat litter' written in big bold letters on the front. "And why the hell is there cat litter in my casserole dish? That was my great aunts!"

Laboring to his feet, House sarcastically mumbled, "Happy Anniversary" in passing, and started for the kitchen.

"Oh, no. _No, no_," Wilson chanted, slicing a finger through the air as though he might have been scolding a child. "Get back in here! Seriously, what were you thinking?"

"What? You like cats," House said, poking his head out from behind the fridge. He frowned suddenly. "Right?"

"What?" he said. Wait. House was deflecting. Stay on topic. Then: "Do _you_ like cats?"

So much for staying on topic.

"Sure I like cats. You remember Death Cat, don't you?"

"'Death Cat'?" he asked, pausing. He vaguely recalled boarding the elevator with House, who had a bag slung over his shoulder. He remembered the bag had hissed. "Oh, right. Death Cat." He hiked his shoulders and crossed his arms. "Look, forget it. It doesn't matter. We're not keeping it."

House hobbled over to the counter and pinched open the mouth of the crème container, squinting suddenly. He did a quick glance around the kitchen. "This.... is my apartment, isn't it?"

"You can't take care of a cat," Wilson groaned, rubbing his forehead. "You can barely even take care of yourself. Where is this thing, anyway?"

"He's around here somewhere."

"Where did you even find it?"

"Outside," he answered, pointing the crème carton at the door.

Wilson stopped rubbing his forehead and sighed. "So, let me get this straight. You'll lie to Cuddy, threaten a patient, _break the law_—but you'll take in a stray cat. Because… that's just the kind of guy you are?"

"Not a stray," he replied, searching for a spoon to stir his coffee. Wilson grimaced as he pulled one out of the sink, inspected it, and wiped it against his shirt. "And I didn't take it in."

"That's disgusting. Just use a clean spoon, will you?"

As House returned to the couch, coffee in hand, he told Wilson how the cat had been wearing a collar when he'd found it.

Wilson winced when House's foot came down on the floor a little too hard and his knee buckled. He pretended not to notice the few drops of coffee that swished over the rim and landed on the floor.

"Think of it more as… borrowing," he said, leaning his cane against the couch and bracing his thigh (rubbing it, Wilson noticed) as he slowly sat.

Wilson ran a hand through his hair, thinking. "Did you check with the neighbors?"

"Vegas," House answered pleasantly.

"The woman, the one with the trash bin. She has a cat, right?"

"No, although she does have an Iguana named Clancy."

Wilson's eyebrows crinkled in confusion, and he was quiet for a long moment. "And that helps us because…"

House shrugged.

"Wait, you said the neighbors are in Vegas? Did she say that?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'? Did you even ask her? Maybe she has a number we can reach them at, or knows someone who does."

"Haven't even talked to her."

"Then how'd you—"

"Read their mail," he answered quickly, then paused. "I may have made that part about the Iguana up."

Wilson stared at him in blank-faced astonishment.

House met his gaze and held it, taking a sip of his coffee as though nothing had been said. He grimaced mid-sip, spit the coffee back into the mug, and said, "Needs more sugar. Wilson?" he looked down at his leg and made a lame attempt at a whimper.

Wilson watched in disbelief as House began to rub at his thigh softly, and marched into the kitchen, cursing a blue streak inside his mind. When he returned, he asked, "Are you insane?" and tossed a few packets of sugar onto the coffee table. "You can't just open somebody's mail."

"I slid the mail under the door, it'll be fine."

"Right," Wilson said, doubtful.

The last thing he needed was for House to be sent to jail and for him to be homeless. Then again, House would probably just mess around in court for a few weeks and somehow get off scot-free free, like always. He wondered: could House manipulate an entire jury? The disturbing part was he probably could.

House ripped open two packets of sugar and emptied them into his coffee. "So, getting back to the important stuff: who was it?"

"What?"

"The reason you're late."

Wilson blinked repeatedly, his face screwed up in confusion.

Loudly and clearly, in case he'd gone deaf, House said, "_Who did you have sex with?_"

"No one!" Wilson bellowed, setting the casserole dish down on the edge of the coffee table. "My god, you're unbelievable! Look, stop changing subjects. We're talking about you filling my great aunts casserole dish with cat litter right now, not my sex life."

When House didn't answer, Wilson began unbuttoning his sleeves, rolling them up.

"Where's your tie?" House randomly asked.

"Wha—uh. What?" Wilson came to a full stop, caught off guard. "My—"

"Your _tie_," House bellowed, irritated.

"It's, uh, in my briefcase." He rubbed his hands together, frowning. "Why?"

"So you took it off before you got home," House said slowly, leaning forward. "Interesting."

Wilson nearly laughed. "How is that interesting?"

"You care about how you look," House pointed out.

Wilson tilted his head questioningly, his arms folded across his chest.

House rolled his eyes. "You blow dry your hair."

He relaxed a bit at that, and eventually nodded.

"You wouldn't have taken it off outside somewhere—what if someone saw?" He teased. "But if you were inside, somewhere, like a redheaded nurse's apartment…"

Wilson sighed, wondering why House was riding the notion that he was sleeping with someone. "Don't be ridiculous. I got warm on the way home and it was itchy. I took it off. It proves nothing."

"C'mon," House said coaxingly, feigning trustworthiness. "I won't tell anyone."

"That's just it, you'd tell everyone!" Wilson blanched as House's eyebrows popped up; he had walked into the trap. Damn. "_If _I were sleeping with someone—which I'm not."

"Probably," House agreed, looking him over again. "I forget, does 'being warm' mess with your body's neurological system, inhibiting one's ability to button their shirt correctly?"

Surprised and annoyed, Wilson slapped a hand over his chest, blindly searching for the cursed button. "Just because I'm going through a divorce doesn't mean I'm automatically sleeping with anyone. I wasn't sleeping with anyone before the divorce—"

Just then, House did something he rarely ever did: he grinned.

Wilson shot him a look that clearly said: 'shut up.' "I'm not sleeping with anyone during the divorce, and with my luck, chances are I won't be sleeping with anyone after the divorce, okay? Can we drop it?"

"Okay," House said, forcing the grin away.

On his way back into the kitchen to do away with the cat litter, Wilson came to a dead halt. "Wait. Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? Hey, _hear what_?"

Shushing him with a hand, Wilson quietly perched on the arm of the couch, eyes darting every which way.

"There!" He pointed. A tiny meow sounded, and he watched in disbelief as an orange cat crawled out from behind the television, stretched, and flicked its tail.

The cat came right up to House and began nuzzling against his leg.

"Paul!" House said cheerfully, as though he were greeting an old friend. If it weren't for the fact that this was House, who hated virtually everything, Wilson might have smiled. Instead, he just stared.

"'Paul'?" Wilson repeated, when his mind decided to start working again.

"The cat," House explained, nodding to the cat, who hopped up onto the couch and promptly laid out on top of the mail. With a sneer, he added, "I named him."

"You named it?" Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "You can't name it! And anyway, what a ridiculous name for a cat," he chuckled. "Paul is a persons name!"

House stared at him. "What about Hector?"

"Don't look at me!" Wilson exclaimed. "I didn't name him."

"What would you've named him, then?"

"I don't know…Rex?"

"Because that's _so _much better. Face it. You suck at naming things."

"Little Greg?" Wilson prompted. "Bally?"

"Still better than 'Rex'."

The cat rolled around for a few minutes and meowed loudly, looking as though he might start tearing through the front room at any moment.

"House," Wilson said, brushing the verbal beat down on his creativeness aside, "this cat's bleeding." He pointed to an orange-ish red smudge on a few of the envelopes.

House briefly looked at the cat and made a face. "Paul's fine."

"It's obviously hurt," he said, trying to find where the bleeding was coming from before he gently pet it on the head. It yowled at him. He scowled. "Aren't you at least going to take it to the vet?"

"Vets are morons," House grumbled.

"You can't be serious."

"If I took him to a vet they'd charge me a hundred bucks just to tell me he can't fight worth a crap and stick an IV in him. Just pour some peroxide on it. He'll be fine."

Wilson watched in something close to amazement as House stiffly reached out and scratched the cat with a single finger. It gently purred and rolled over on its stomach, as if mocking him.

"You aren't planning to keep this thing until these people get back, are you? Assuming that it's even their cat."

Pursing his lips, House's head lulled to the side, his eyes squinted slightly. "Would it bother you if I said yes?"

"A little, yes," Wilson confessed.

"Then yes."

Floored, Wilson sucked in his breath, blinking. He watched House produce an orange pill bottle and toss back two Vicodin.

"How's your leg?" He asked, keeping on eye on the cat and one eye on how many pills House was taking. The task in itself was impossible, but he tried anyway.

"Hurts."

"Are you sure this isn't just some ploy in order to annoy me and distract you from your pain?"

House looked genuinely shocked. "That doesn't sound like me."

Wilson sighed. "You aren't really planning on keeping this cat, are you? You do know he's probably spraying all over the place, right?"

"Oh, relax. He's got a vet appointment in two days; take him in, if he needs to be fixed, get him fixed. After that, leave him there for all I care. Leave a note on Mr. and Mrs. Morons door, if it is theirs, they'll eventually figure it out. If not, big deal. Cat gets a free meal and a warm bed. Just make sure it isn't a kill shelter."

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said," House reminded him. "I said it." His face broke out into a scowl again and he waved at the cat. "Anyway, the only reason I made the appointment is because I'm willing to bet Ron Jeremy here isn't fixed, and frankly, I'm too young to be tied down with a box full of kittens."

"Okay, well first," Wilson smirked, "you're not that young."

"Ouch."

"And second, you do realize this is borderline nice?"

"Yes, I did it to be _nice_. Just because its owners are idiots and can't keep it indoors where it belongs doesn't mean I should have to suffer."

Wilson nodded sympathetically. "Because kittens are an unholy abomination, not fluffy hairball factories most people find adorable."

"I don't want to crush a pink mewing thing with my cane on my way to work," he explained, and stood, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Fine," Wilson said. "So, are you paying for this, or are we…?"

"Nope. You're paying for it."

"What?"

"You owe me."

"What do you want?" Wilson sighed. "You want me to bribe Cuddy into letting you miss clinic duty? Money?" He squinted curiously. "Oh, god. You don't want me to kill someone, do you? I'll lie for you, but killing is where I draw the line."

"Don't be ridiculous. I leave all the killing to my minions. All I want from you is a name," he said, bouncing the rubber tip of his cane against the floor. He began twirling it. "I can piece the rest together myself. I am a genius, you know."

"A na—Oh, for the love of—House! I am not sleeping with anyone!"

"We both know I'm going to find out eventually," House told him. He righted his cane and smiled almost pleasantly. "So, you can either tell me now, or I can find out on my own. My way's more fun," he shrugged, "but I'm flexible."

"I am not sleeping with anyone, and I'm not feeding into your need for a puzzle. That's what your_ job_ is for. You know, the thing you avoid doing all day. Find some other way to entertain yourself."

House's cheeks filled with air as his eyes wandered off to the side, and he shrugged, making his lips thin and blowing the air out between them.

"Okay," he said simply, with a single nod.

"'Okay'?"

"Okay."

Confusion. "So… where are you going?"

"Sock-hunting."

"Why do you need socks?" Wilson frowned thoughtfully, looking down at his feet. He was already wearing socks. By the looks of it, he'd been wearing them for a couple days.

"Paul here needs something to play with before he starts tearing up my couch."

"So why can't you use one of your own socks?"

House stopped in his tracks, a strange expression on his face. "You have more."

"That's because I buy more, mostly because you keep stealing them."

House waved his hand dismissively, and then patted his knee softly. "Paul. Come."

"It's not a dog, House," Wilson said dully into his palm.

Much to his surprise, the cat stretched again and hopped down from the couch. Wilson watched, amazed, and even a little annoyed, as the it gently padded over to House, who shrugged innocently and disappeared into the bathroom.

Wilson brushed the bloodied mail as far away as he could and sank into the sofa, running a hand over his face. His eyebrows climbed up his forehead and he sighed, paused, and then reached for the remote.

"Whatever," he said breathily, beginning to search through the channels.

It was just easier to ignore it.

He glanced at the casserole dish and frowned at the kitty litter that had fallen onto the coffee table. He shut the television off. Yeah, that needed to be washed out. _Now._


End file.
